What continent is this,
that allows her children to continue to give,
to those who, already, have more than enough,
while she, herself, is left with nothing to survive on?

Our pain;
their gain.
Our blood;
their gold.
Our death;
their joy.

What continent is this,
that mercilessly milks her citizens,
like a poor farmer does, his only cow,
till she runs dry, emaciated,
unable to produce a single drop of milk
anymore?

Our cries, our tears,
are like melody to her ears.
We have given, and given,
yet this continent continues to cry out to us:
more money! more power! more blood!

Money, to enrich the pockets of the greedy few,
Power, to keep the privileged untouchable,
Blood, to seal the convenant they signed behind our backs,
without our consent.

Give me your eyes, she screams.
Give me your limbs, she shouts.
Give me your back, she demands.
Give me your head, she says.

What continent is this,
that asks for our heads, on a platter,
as proof, of our unflinching love, for her?

What continent is this
that seeks of her own children,
more than they can afford to offer?

Day 2 of November challenge. 30 poems in 30 days.

Comments and criticisms are well appreciated 🙏🏾

See ya….

Love❤️

Liz.